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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25191376">My Highest Reverence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebolshevixen/pseuds/thebolshevixen'>thebolshevixen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Phantom of the Opera (1925)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:41:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25191376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebolshevixen/pseuds/thebolshevixen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine must make her choice and come to terms with her own feelings. Enjoy!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Beginning and an End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"Kira, the highest thing in man is not his god. It's that in him which knows the reverence due a god. And you, Kira, are my highest reverence..."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>― Ayn Rand, "We the Living"</em>
</p><p>"You have tried my patience for the last time," he snarled, words sputtering from his lips that twisted and sneered; a caged beast. His face was merely a single breath from her own when he paused, whispering, "Now, you shall make your choice."</p><p>He backed away from her then, moving slowly to the throne and collapsing into its golden wake. He seemed exhausted, suddenly, as if he'd lived several lifetimes within the last few hours, yet regretted them all. His eyes fell upon her…bitterly.</p><p>Christine chewed her bottom lip, her eyes never once leaving the distorted face lit only by tiny flickers of candlelight. She was delicate, she was fragile…she was breakable.</p><p>The blood lay on his hands. For it was he, who ultimately had broken her.</p><p>A simple look passed between the two was the moment they'd both realized it. This man, her protector and guidance, her safety from the world…</p><p>He had been the one to destroy her.</p><p>She had been the casualty of a desperate love, and within its tilted madnes, had taken lives and forced choices. For even now, he lay yet another choice at her feet. His eyes were wrought with guilt and shame; and hers, an unbearable sorrow that weighed so cripplingly…it seemed it may very well crush her in its silent folds.</p><p>The room seemed thick with the stench of death already; this dank lair in which he'd made his home. Christine stared down at her hands, her fingers clenching and unclenching as the weight of her thoughts consumed her. He was asking her – no - demanding that she choose between them. As infuriated as she was with him, she could not seemingly imagine a life without him. In that very moment, as she knelt in layers of lace, she was uncertain of the emotions that swirled and creased within her heart.</p><p>Despite the years of deception and the desperate malicious acts, she found that she still cared for him. He yearned for her; this, she knew. The pure knowledge of it made her shudder; a combination of fear and apprehension…as well as an attraction she dare not admit to herself, lest it consume her.</p><p>The dark room was still; a chorus of three humans breathing together…a symphony that seemed not quite finished, save for one last piece…one last note…</p><p>And this she knew; she was the note that would end the symphony.</p><p>She remembered the first night she had come here. She had been so enraptured with his voice; as if it wove a spell that tied her soul and body together. She would have given anything to him, everything to him. Before the spell had been broken, before she had ripped away his mask and revealed his shame. If only she could go back to that very moment where they stood on the threshold; if only she could place the mask back on his face…where it belonged.</p><p>Had only a few moments passed? Had he only spoken to here mere seconds ago? Or was it hours, was it days she had been stuck in this very position, wringing her hands so tightly, they seemed to bleed?</p><p>Somehow, despite her exhaustion, she lifted herself from the floor. And there she stood, weighed down by the lace, by the choice that lay between her fingers that wrung themselves.</p><p>She must be strong, now. And for whom? It didn't seem to matter anymore.</p><p>Had she ever even been strong, before?</p><p>Hadn't she been ever so weak as her father lay dying, as she watched him strain for his last breath?</p><p>Hadn't she been naive when she had let a masked man serenade her and lead her into an unknown? A world of darkness, a world that lay below in the catacombs of the Opera House?</p><p>Hadn't she been pathetic when she agreed to her fiances' devilish plan to trap the Phantom…</p><p>Her Phantom?</p><p>Christine paused suddenly, realization striking her like icy rain. She no longer knew what to call him.</p><p>For no longer was he the angel, no longer was he a ghost. He was flesh and blood; a living and breathing man. A majestic and darkened silhouette that so often had hovered above her, so often enveloped her in his gaze and his crazed onslaught of passion…</p><p>He had a name. And she'd never thought to ask it. Given the gravity of the events and emotions that now hung in the air between them, the room seemed to strangle…and it was now hard to even take a single breath.</p><p>She took another tentative step toward this mystery of a man as he sat on his throne; with long, pale fingers clutching the arms of the chair like talons of a red-eyed raven. He was grotesque; he had done unspeakable things… yet he was still so full of brilliance, as if his mere presence illuminated the room. This presence, in itself was intoxicating, and it filled her senses with lust for the nostalgic, for the man behind the mirror; for time to move backwards, just so she could fix what had been done…</p><p>But it could not be undone. It was too late.</p><p>Her voice came as a whisper as she approached his cowering form.</p><p>"What…what is your name?" Her eyes pleaded with him, as her question had seemed to</p><p>rouse him from darkness that had seemed to consume his thoughts, his eyes…She wrung her hands anxiously, standing near him, waiting for him to speak.</p><p>"My name . . ." He lifted his shoulders, pondering what he might say to her. His captivating voice seemed to halt inside his throat for a few seconds, before he added softly, "My mother never gave me a name, for she did not wish to acknowledge my existence…except only to provide me with a mask."</p><p>Christine shuddered at his words, her heart swelling then with an overwhelming sense of compassion for him. She pictured him as a helpless and disfigured child, alienated, tossed away, and unloved. The prelude to this shattered man who sat on his throne before her very eyes.</p><p>The Phantom leaned forward and brought one long finger to his chin. "I chose to call myself Erik. You may call me by that name now, if you wish." The malice in his body seemed to slip away at this admission; the muscles so tightly strung along the broadness of his back now relaxing. As if by revealing his name, he'd released another barrier between them, and it dissolved then into thin air.</p><p>And she was thankful for this. For he gave to her, even still. Even though she had shamed him, even though she had torn away his humility, his protection…</p><p>"Erik." She murmured, the solemnity of a prayer upon her lips. It felt gratifying to hear it; to know his name, after all the years that had gone by.</p><p>"Yes," he sighed, reveling in the sound of his name upon her lips, before quickly sinking back into agony once more. "And now, your Erik asks you to choose, Mademoiselle."</p><p>Her gaze drifted back and forth between the two men in front of her. Erik's presence was more than commanding; he sat like a dark prince willing her acceptance. Raoul, struggling in the noose, sweat beads dripping down his face…he had attempted bravery in a futile situation.</p><p>For he could never be the victor. Erik had made it so.</p><p>"Erik . . ." She was not sure how many times she had whispered his name, but the newness of this title of his lingered upon her tongue; and it seemed to transform him before her very eyes once again.</p><p>He had taught her voice to soar. He had awoken feelings within her that were strange but desirable, and he'd offered her love. His love.</p><p>But his love came with bloodshed… and now, he threatened her with a choice. Raoul stood on the tips of his toes, struggling against the coarse rope of the noose. Christine strained her neck to look at him behind her. He let out a choked noise, pulling at the rope around his neck, his eyes locking with hers.</p><p>Christine.</p><p>Christine bid her fiance a tearful nod; a silent farewell. He had been her safety and comfort, her complete and utter stability. There was no raging fire of indecision and desire between them, no threats, no surprises. The future with him by her side was always certain and clear. Raoul always had an answer, a plan, and an embrace. He was the embodiment of a childhood she thought had been long lost. To marry him, to become his wife meant freedom…did it not? Raoul was kind and gentle; he had granted her a familiarity that reminded her of her father…</p><p>And the days by the sea.</p><p>He had run into the water for her red scarf, returning with it triumphantly and soaking wet. He held the piece of fabric high in his hand, as if it were a beacon that could lead them to the ends of the earth. Yet now, that very boy was now dangling on the edge of a rope, his gaze transfixed upon her and Erik, desperately.</p><p>He was helpless, now. The red scarf had been lost to the wind.</p><p>Christine had pledged herself to him with a secret engagement. And now, she would tell him goodbye; she would save his life, she would become his protector. Her face turned to him once</p><p>more, tears streaming down her face as she mouthed to him yet another secret. I love you.</p><p>Could she envision her life without the light of Raoul's smile, the safety of his arms? Could she offer herself to this masked man? She still somehow burned for Erik, for his peculiarity and his genius…</p><p>She shifted her eyes to her fallen angel, his shoulders heaving and his chest shuddering, a tumult of emotions she could not yet decipher. Could she exist outside the realm of his music, away from him, forever? And why did the thought of being without him fill her heart with emptiness; with thousands of needle-like knives that seemed to puncture her very soul?</p><p>Erik existed in a different realm. She knew she would be the only other being in existence that could share in his world. She wanted to know his world and his pain suddenly, like the notes in an aria he'd taught her; as familiar as the lines in the palm of her right hand.</p><p>She looked up at Erik again, meeting his mismatched eyes with a recognition that could only ever live between the two of them. It was an understanding wrought of music, passion; the untold whispers between them. What lingered there was a desire never fulfilled, and it dangled on the edge of a cliff…and neither one of them could ever breach the length of it to grasp it in their hands.</p><p>The depth of Christine's emotions for Erik seemed to strangle her. Love, hate, rebirth, gratitude, and anger. All-consuming passion…She could bear it. She would have to.</p><p>What could he be feeling in this moment; regret and remorse, guilt and shame? Or was it defeat and desperation?</p><p>She hoped Erik had realized the graveness of his actions; every teetering step that had led up to this very moment. She took another step toward him, an inexplicable urge to touch him propelling her to his tall form made of shadows. Could she forgive this man; could she set him free, herself?</p><p>Touching him would be the igniting of a flame. He was a man born of shadows and smooth lines; always impeccably dressed in a sensual aloofness that forbid intimacy. He was otherworldly, and Christine yearned to know him suddenly; to learn the lines of the man and not simply the façade of a ghost. He was darkness and uncertainty, something she wished to grasp in her hands and hold it firmly…just long enough to make it real.</p><p>He was an incredible creature, her Erik; if she chose to claim him. He was composed of a dark sensuality, holding the inherent grace of a feline, possessing realms of knowledge far too expansive to be touched by any average man. He had stood as her protector, her tutor; ever since she'd been a quivering child in the bowels of the Opera house chapel.</p><p>Now, a different man sat in front of her. His shuddering body, once powerful and seemingly unstoppable, now lay in pieces. He was vulnerable in a manner that shook her to her core; almost causing her knees to give out. He'd removed the elegant tailcoat, and as he gripped his elbows to his chest, clad only in his shirtsleeves and trousers; he appeared achingly exposed.</p><p>Love me, Erik seemed to silently beg. Love me, Christine. Feel for me, as you felt our music…</p><p>He was a murderer.</p><p>Yet, he loved her with an intensity she could not touch, an inescapable dream. She was drawn to his love, as if an intangible and unreachable cord bound them together; tying two souls into one.</p><p>Christine doubted every truth she had known. She doubted the men that struggled before her. But seemingly, in the midst of it all…she did not doubt herself.</p><p>She would make a truth of this night. She would be responsible for whatever lay between the three of them.</p><p>If anyone could place a balm to the scars that lined his face…wouldn't it be her?</p><p>Erik stood then, pushing himself up from his throne by grasping the arms of the chair. His head was bowed in resignation, and he once again turned his back to his Christine. He did not wish her to see the tears that threatened his eyes, the defeat written across his marred features.</p><p>Filled to the brim by sudden and overpowering emotion, Christine brought her palm to Erik's shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at her.</p><p>"Erik. You were never alone."</p><p>It came both as a whisper and a cry of desperation. It was longing, pain, anger, and love wrapped up in those simple words she uttered without hesitation. She caught the side of his face in her hands and pressed her mouth to his.</p><p>This is my choice.</p><p>They surrendered together in that embrace, lost to the world around them, his lips casting over hers with a powerful desperation that nearly brought her to her knees..</p><p>Damn him, she cried inwardly as he took her mouth with a feverish intensity.</p><p>Damn him for all of this.</p><p>Their tears mingled between their lips as they sought touch, clutching to one another with ravenous need; drowning desperately and seeking air.</p><p>She would be his.</p><p>It resonated within her very soul, this kiss. It was everything she needed to know. Everything to seal her choice. In every thought, in every caress of their mouths and brush of their fingers, this love and the finality of it seemed to be spoken aloud.</p><p>But, was it enough?</p><p>He was hers, and she could no longer deny that she was his. She pulled him to her body in an agony of wanting, her fingers wrenching into his shirtsleeves, her cheek resting upon his shoulder as he shuddered…</p><p>And, with the finality of love, she tried to convey that her decision had been made. Christine pulled him once again to her body, her cheek pressed to his bare face in some strange recognition of what was felt between them. Her palms rested in the fabric of his shirt, holding him closer to her.</p><p>"I am yours," she whispered into his chest, in a voice so soft that it sounded no louder than a raindrop hitting the ground. But he heard her, and his hands came from trembling in the air by her sides to clutching her; one hand seeking her waist, and the other tangling in her mass of dark curls.</p><p>Christine sought his lips again, her touch to his swollen mouth nearly bringing Erik to his knees. When his trembling fingers crept to her cheek, to hold her in his embrace…</p><p>It was done.</p><p>Even as she dove into a second kiss; a kiss she knew was meant for her alone… for his love traced the outline of her mouth with soft, distorted lips.</p><p>She realized that all of these years and months, she had loved him, and would continue to love him.</p><p>And within this realization, she had set him free.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. My Highest Reverence: Undone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Christine and Erik say goodbye.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<em>Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings." ― Anais Nin</em></p><p>Erik was the first to pull away; a gasp escaping his malformed lips as he recognized the enormity of what had occurred only seconds before. She had kissed him…and not just once. The touch and sweetness of her soft lips had been a healing balm on his; an exalted feeling of her mouth on his served to ground him into the earth; shattering the walls of madness he’d clung to for so many years. He ran a trembling hand through the rough and wild patches of his sparse gray hair - the wig of perfection, of slicked black hair thrown to the side…since the exact moment Christine had exposed his violent and disturbing features during the last moments of his opera. Erik heaved, struggling to compose himself; attempting to gather his thoughts into a singular line of reason. He found that he only knew one thing for certain, and he must cling to the truth of it.</p><p>She was his salvation.</p><p>He looked at her then; her body as lifeless as the mannequin he had made from her perfectly crafted features…a pathetic attempt to possess her in any small semblance he could - a perversion of the dream he had desperately longed to become alive. His living Christine existed in a delicate balance; somewhere between imagination and reality. He could see dark curls hanging down her back, with tendrils clinging to her cheeks from the moisture of sweat and tears. Her hands stretched out to him, an unknown question throbbing in the tips of her fingers. As she lifted her refined cheekbones into the light, Erik could see a slight blossom of warmth that reddened the paleness of her face. But she did not claim him again; instead, Christine offered him a gentle smile; an acknowledgment of what had been shared between them. As he read her face, he knew then that she cared deeply for him. His presence in her life was not a curse, but something she cherished. Something living and breathing. A whisper of love.</p><p>She cared for him. Perhaps she always had, and his sickening malicious nature and obsessive need to take her had caused her fear…it had been the very thing keeping them apart.</p><p>Until this very moment.</p><p>Erik had not made it easy for her to form an attachment to him. He’d never really believed earning her affection to be a possibility; he never dreamed that her endearing and hopeful smile might eagerly await his response. Christine and her devotion to music were the only things he had ever ached to possess; and he’d ruthlessly sought out her affection in numerous deceitful ways. Now, he could see a glimmer of hope; a future together within her enormous blue eyes…could all of his actions from the past simply be erased, allowing them to start some semblance of a life together? Or, had his madness made that an impossiblility? He inhaled deeply, the weight of his thoughts and the ferocity of the night causing a near physical strain on his body.</p><p>He sought Christine’s eyes again, trying to find an answer within those pale blue orbs as to how he should proceed. Surely, the strength of her unwavering compassion could give a broken man the guidance he so despreately desired. As he regarded her, he found himself detained by her intense fragility; she was a trembling and pale young woman, with bones as delicate as a bird’s. She stood impossibly small, clad in layers of white that served not only to amplify her beauty, but represented her transformation into the immaculate image of a virginal bride.</p><p>His bride, light and graceful as a dove.</p><p>Chrsitine’s hand still hung in the air, reaching out to him through the space between their bodies.</p><p>She took another step towards him.</p><p>“Erik,” Her voice roused him from his miserable revelation. “I’m ready. I understand now,” she whispered, her voice too low for the Vicomte to hear. She flattened a palm to his chest, right underneath his heart that throbbed painfully. His ribcage was long and lean, with skin taut against the defined musculature of his abdomen. To her surprise, his flesh was lined with scars, horrific raised abrasions that marked memories of what she could only assume were the remnants of abuse. She longed to explore the rugged geography of his pain with her touch; to know his tortured history and any other secrets his ravaged body held. Christine sought to match her pulse to the rhythm of his breathing. Erik looked down at her fingers in wonder as they tenderly pressed to his shivering flesh. Such small yet powerful hands, she had!</p><p>“Ready…Christine? What do you mean? What is there to understand?” He choked the words out, tasting the salt of tears on his lips. Was he tasting her tears as well as his own; tears that had spilled when she’d conquered a tortured demon with the healing power of her mouth? Did this brave girl, a fragile angel draped in his layers of ivory, feel his wild and frantic heartbeat crashing against her palm?</p><p>Christine pressed herself to his chest as her other hand sought the damaged flesh of his right cheek. He failed to fathom the sweet splendor of her body against his; the tenderness with which her fingertips caressed his face. Erik bowed his head to feel her brown curls against his skin, inhaling the delicious scent of her. He attempted to memorize her assault upon his senses in this very moment; to create a living illustration of their intimacy in his mind that he could revisit for the remainder of his days on earth.</p><p>Christine traced the ridges and gnarls of his distorted cheek, learning the smooth hollows and marred ridges of his unique flesh. Her delicate fingers moved to the back of his head, touching the fine hairs there and pulling him down gently so that she might place quiet words in his ear. “I think I understand now, Erik. I’m ready to be your wife.”</p><p>“Oh, Christine,” he groaned into her curls, bringing his trembling arms around her back to pull her in, seeking a desperate closeness - needing her to feel the impact of her perfect words in the shuddering of his heart.</p><p>“I love you…I…I cannot describe how undeserving of your affection I am.” He cupped her cheek, relishing the high, sweet arch of her cheekbone as his thumb caressed it. Christine leaned into his touch, her body responding without permission from her mind; her heightened senses.</p><p>They held each other, chest to chest, for several rapturous moments; a time in which they were simply two beings existing in that cavernous darkness. The only sounds to focus upon was the music of their labored and heated breathing resounding off one another’s flesh. Christine wondered if the moment might exceed itself into a bittersweet eternity between the two of them; if they might have the ability to capture this embrace and hold it as a tangible memory to be relived again and again…after the ill- fated conclusion that would inevitably separate them…</p><p>Forever.</p><p>Erik took in an abrupt breath and grabbed the laced rounds of her quivering shoulders. Her bones were as thin and fragile as a flitting dove, and as he toyed with the delicate white fabric between his thumbs and forefingers, he began to memorize the touch of the bridal cloth against his fingertips. In the turbulent thoughts that flew through his mind, he gaped at the imagined scenario of a wedding; the creation of a day that held impossible beauty…</p><p>A day that would never come to pass.</p><p>He slowly released the fabric with lithe fingers, tracing her skin from her throat down to her delicate clavicle…to the smoothness of her shoulders - all angular and tender structures. His palms rode down her arms in an act born of sensual fragility and resignation before he pushed her away from him once more.</p><p>“The Vicomte,” he sputtered out, “Your fiance, Christine. I must let him go. You will need his help to get out of here.” The tall, ebony-clad, majestic man known to her as the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, her Angel of Music, and finally...just Erik, moved further from her, turning his broad back and hunching his shoulders She watched as painful heaves of sorrow ravaged his body as he attempted to compose himself. His imposing form, which once had seemed carved from marble, was now made of feathers…light, tender, and ever so breakable. This new and raw humanity endeared him more to her, and her heart silently begged her body to go to him and embrace him.</p><p>Still.</p><p>The air was so very still.</p><p>She let him be. She was uncertain if she was even able to move or speak, for every emotion coursing through her overwhelmed her senses and rendered her a statue, mute and rooted to the floor. She watched Erik as he paced, transfixed by his every slight gesture; his slow and graceful gait, and the anguished wringing of his long and beautiful fingers as they hung defeated by his sides.</p><p>His power had left him, she realized.</p><p>He was only a man.</p><p>How she relished the crumbling of the walls of his defenses! She savored the truth of him, the lack of façade or covering of a mask. His vulnerability touching her became something to which she would cling. His humanity was intoxicating, and she found herself wanting to possess this broken man; to embrace him and quench his every need…to make her love a salve to his pain. How strange that his weakness should give her the strength to finally acknowledge her desire to be consumed by him.</p><p>The intangible chord between them was pulled tighter still. Christine began to absorb his last words that had been delicately whispered to her.</p><p>“The Vicomte. Your fiance…Christine, I must let him go.” Erik glanced at the man struggling with the noose. He was so impossibly handsome.</p><p>Did he mean for her to leave him, now that she had given him her truth?</p><p>Erik moved towards Raoul, gripping a long taper in his right hand. His left palm shielded its flame from the cavernous draft of the cave, and Christine stared at Erik, stupified as he approached her struggling fiance. Raoul’s eyes were wild with terror, his fingers clenched against the rope that ate into the flesh of his neck; his feet barely touching the floor as he dangled. His blonde locks fell around the sharp beauty of his cheekbones in sweaty, wet clumps. But compared to the Vicomte’s wrecked countenance and disheveled appearance, Erik’s face held an almost eerie and calm demeanor as he came to stand inches from the Vicomte. Though he did not hold his head high, nor his chin lifted; the incongruous lines of his marred cheek relaxed, breaking the tension that moments ago had set his jawline rigid.</p><p>Erik’s mismatched eyes found the Victomte’s, his gaze a wordless command that caused the young man to cease his wrestling with the noose and his body to still. The Opera Ghost lifted the taper to the lasso, and a moment of fearful uncertainty passed between the three inhabitants of the cellar.</p><p>There was a deafening snap of the rope as the flames bit through its coarse fibers, and the raw and animalistic cry of the man who had wielded it. Then came the hollow thud of Raoul’s body falling to the ground, creating a delirious cacophony of noise; a dissonant chord that caused the room to shudder.</p><p>“Take her away from here!”</p><p>Erik loomed over the Vicomte who was furiously wringing at the loop around his neck, attempting to rid himself of its cursed hold.</p><p>“Go, take her to where it is safe.” His voice held a dreadful urgency, and he snuffed the candle out as he threw it to the ground; his movements growing frantic as he turned to Christine. He covered the space between them in an instant, palms grasping her white shoulders firmly. The pressure of his long, spidery fingers on her skin shoved her back down into reality…</p><p>A place in which she did not want to go.</p><p>She reached up to him in desperation, cupping his cheeks in a gesture of infinite tenderness; one cheek that always stood bare, handsome and smooth…a mockery of the distorted ridges of its mirrored counterpart. Her thumbs rubbed the drying tears that trailed down from the corners of his eyes, while her other fingers explored the gnarled pale juttings and angry red hollows that formed the skin of the right half of his face. “Erik,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a faint wisp of sound. “Please, don’t make me go. Please.”</p><p>Her cry ripped through him as he pulled her into the envelope of his arms, his chin resting on her head. Erik inhaled the light, floral scent of her hair as he wrapped her dark tendrils between his fingers, savoring the faint hint of lavender soap that so often gave him a subtle announcement of her nearness. Would he ever again breathe in the singularity of her sweetness? Her purity was a nectar that could nourish him for the remainder of his sordid days. It would have been enough.</p><p>Yet surely, this was goodbye.</p><p>“Listen to me.” His eyes lifted up to the cellars above them, “Do you hear?”</p><p>Christine grew very still in that moment, attempting to quiet her ragged breathing; to stifle the violent pounding of her heartbeat so that she might hear. The sounds of the furious and panicked voices resounded above them; a mob, all calling for the capture of the murderer whose ravaged face she now held and caressed in her palms. There was no time left in which to explore newly discovered feelings, whatever the nature of those feelings might be; furious, passionate, fearful… fate would be separating them in a matter of seconds. Christine squeezed Erik’s broad chest to her, savoring the hardness of his frame against her softness.</p><p>This moment would be the last time she would hold her angel so intimately.</p><p>Raoul was the embodiment of a handsome prince, disheveled yet just as powerful as he fought to stand. He was helpless but to stare at the two in wonder and disbelief; his brown eyes growing wide from the scene that lay before him. The connection between them was unsettling, and he could not hear the words that were passed between them.<br/>“Christine!” His raspy voice cut the atmosphere of the cavern and jolted the couple to separate, staring at him in shocking astonishment.</p><p>His call to Christine was the equivalent of severing a physical chain between his fiance’ and the monster he saw before him, for they were split apart immediately. Erik urgently covered Christine’s hands with his own and removed them from his flesh, as if her fingers burned his very skin.</p><p>Raoul’s thoughts were a whirlwind, a deafening sound in his ears. Even if he took her away from this darkened hell, a very sacred part of her soul would remain with this beast of a man. What had begun as a vow and a kiss…Christine’s bargain to save his own life had grown into some sort of revelation shared between her and the monster, igniting and waking a deep well of desire that had lain dormant. Raoul doubted Christine could even understand the depths he had seen within her when she’d embraced that cursed, disfigured shadow of a man; with a face half covered in hollowed-out scars, and unruly random patches of dark hair spotting his scalp.</p><p>The Vicomte could not deny that he savored the sight of the commanding and omnipotent figure of the Phantom of the Opera beaten down to the pathetic reality he’d hidden so masterfully. The Opera Ghost was a disfigured and lonely man; driven half-mad by obsession. Not the dangerously tall, imposing and powerful being holding power over all that walked the wings and corridors of the Palais Garnier. He was simply a wretched man in a fine suit, groveling for a love and acceptance he had never experienced. The Vicomte did not pity him then, not in that moment…even as his mind passed through the tortured and horrid landscapes of this disgusting freak’s life. He loathed the self-appointed Opera Ghost and the authority he still seemed to wield over Christine. His elusive hold over her was enraging and unreal, and maddening…</p><p>Because what Raoul had seen was untouchable.</p><p>Raoul would never enlighten her to what he had witnessed in the unspoken words between her and the Ghost. He would be certain to create a new life for her if they were ever to be free of this hell…He would bestow upon her such happiness and distraction that this wretched night would one day become an obscure memory that barely spotted the years of happiness they were sure to share.</p><p>“Christine!” Raoul cried out again, beseeching her to come to him.</p><p>“Raoul!” And she went to him, hugging his body to her, pushing the sweat-soaked hair from his brow with a tender gentleness. He found love and growing concern in her eyes as she examined his face and neck…</p><p>Yet he did not see the passion and joy he’d hoped to find in their reunion. Her touch was merely a comfort compared to the intimacy he’d witnessed between the two of them moments before. Whatever had transpired between her and that man was not important now. He must take her away from this godforsaken place.</p><p>“Christine, we have to leave here. Now!” Raoul shook her by the shoulders, trying to bring her back to reality. Her eyes opened wide, as if she’d been abruptly roused from a dream. Perhaps she had been dreaming…</p><p>But if she heard his urgent plea, she did not heed his words, not right away. Instead, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at Erik, searching for answers; willing him to speak upon a conclusion for this night. In her heart, revelation was dawning like a blossom spreading open in the dawn of daylight. If he asked her to stay, to flee with him, she would not hesitate in her response.</p><p>Erik was attempting to straighten out his clothing, to tuck in his shirt and smooth out the sparse patches of his hair. He was trying to give a resemblence of composure and command, yet in reality, he had no strength left to offer her. All of it had left him barren and powerless; for his love had left his fingers as soon as she had fled across the room.</p><p>Erik’s eyes lifted to hers, devoid of hope, and they shared a desperate, memorizing look. Christine’s heart sank as she realized Erik had made this choice for her; a self-sacrificial decision that derived from an infinite love, a selflessness she had been unaware of up until this moment.</p><p>“Go now, Christine,” his voice was low and tinged with pain. He was defeated, this, she knew. “Please.” He approached her, and as he did, the Vicomte attempted to surge forward towards him, ready to strike; though his limbs were weak and his breath short. Christine spread her arms out, her curls wet and tangled in her sleeves as she attempted to separate the men.</p><p>Erik did not even flinch.</p><p>“Christine,” he spoke, his graceful fingers extending out, and wrapping into her hair, shoving away the tendrils that clung to her glistening cheeks. “Take the boat, leave with him…You shall be happy. There is nothing but death for you here.”</p><p>She started to protest, grabbing at his wrist as he released her hair. “Erik…please!”<br/>But his eyes silenced her before she could utter another word.</p><p>With undying tenderness, Erik pulled her fingers from his wrist, one at a time, savoring the soft feel of her skin against his own for the last time. His voice shifted then, growing fierce and urgent as the sounds of the approaching mob grew louder with each passing second.</p><p>“Go now, Christine.”</p><p>The Vicomte dare not look at his fiance as he pulled her by the arm, leading her towards the boat. He did not wish to read the devastation he knew he would find in her features.<br/>“Christine.” Another tug of her arm and finally her feet shifted to follow him to the boat, her fingers gripping the tattered cotton of his dress shirt. She would cling to anything tangible now. Everything else in her world was now a gaping hole; threatening to shatter her with every step that she took.</p><p>Her gaze never left the disfigured man who loved her. Raoul guided her into the gondola, his strong and lean arms lifting her into the vessel. Christine’s knees seemed to buckle in despair at every step away from the cursed lair and her captor, the angel…the man.<br/>She crumbled to the bottom of the boat in a tangled and molten heap of ivory, bewildered tears running down the paleness of her cheeks. She exhaled an anguished cry.</p><p>And there were two angels that wept, that night.</p><p>At the sound of it, Erik fell to his knees, clutching the bridal veil to his tear soaked face. It muffled the sobs into white lace that should have crowned her head. The Opera Ghost had disappeared. He was only a man, broken by an angel which he could not save.</p><p>There would be no salvation for him, anymore. He would no longer haunt the caverns and walls of the Palais Garnier. The underground lake would soon fade into an eerie stillness; its last echoes of anguished cries rippling throughout his entire body. And as the boat faded from his blurred sight, he realized within the stillness that she had taken his heart with him.</p><p>And there would be no way to get it back. For she still held it in her trembling pale hands. He sighed into the delicate lace of her veil, breathing in her scent for the last time before he violently threw it into the lake.</p><p>He was left just a shell of a man. And he would never be whole again.</p><p>Never, without her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I would like to thank my friend and co-author LauraAlphaDog for all her wisdom, friendship, and writing.-Jess</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Damned</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Christine struggles with separation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>― </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Fernando Pessoa</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>…</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Damned</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Vicomte had dropped Christine off at the Girys’ small flat after fleeing the blackened massacre that was now the Opera House. He had kissed her hand, making ardent promises to inquire upon her early the next day. He knew she’d had very little time to collect her thoughts, much less her belongings that had enriched her private dressing room. The journey out of the catacombs had been a clumsy climb through deep darkness and dank air that stung – it had been silent as a graveyard, aside from their thundering footsteps that seemed to make each wall cry; it seemed as if while the Opera House burned, the catacombs wailed in protest…and perhaps, so did she. He could not see her face in the blackness, but her hand was cold within his – Raoul could have sworn her very life force had left her the moment they had turned away from the man that was the Phantom. The man that had kissed her, that had held her…the man that seemed to shatter her within his embrace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was elusive, bizarre, and ultimately strange how Raoul could not quite figure out her thoughts, anymore. Had she turned into someone else within the arms of the Opera Ghost? For as soon as they had reached the surface, her hand had slipped out of his. He had looked upon her fondly, then, reaching out to touch her cheek. Christine had allowed it, but was ultimately unmoveable; a painted statue with permanent pain etched upon her delicate face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Raoul remembered how she’d stumbled over the soaked white folds of the wedding gown as they travelled through the void of Hell – once, he even stopped her, begging her to let him carry her. But she had refused, and somehow this refusal had sent chills down his spine. Did she need the gown? Was it something untouchable, something unreal – that if he himself were to touch it, he might singe his hand…he might destroy all of the precious memories it held within its pale and luxurious creases?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>...</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christine had not yet allowed herself to consider how Raoul might have judged her actions; her passionate embrace and looks of longing with Erik…and most of all, her reluctance to leave him behind. She would have stayed with her tortured angel, however twisted it may have been…yet she knew, it must have been a dagger plunged into the shallow of the Vicomte’s heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Raoul held any resentment towards her, or perhaps possessed jealousy in regards to her feelings so openly displayed for Erik, he had not let them be known. The carriage ride to the Girys’ so far had been eerily silent; silence that was so quiet, it seemed to scream aloud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For what could she say to him, now? What words could possibly capture the essence of what had happened underground, beneath the surface that burned with living flames? This night was not the time for conversations and inquiries of emotion…even though the weight of what had transpired loomed over them both; a towering shadow made tangible with rattled betrayal and fragmented love. Christine thumbed the laced tier of her skirt as the carriage tumbled along. She was relieved that Raoul had given her peace this evening, and not sought after any answers to her evident testament of passion; for if he had asked, she knew she could not lie to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For she had discovered her truth in those kisses. The touch of his lips still lingered on hers; and the more she thought of them, the more real the memory grew in her mind…she brought a finger to her lip, and found it quivering. She bit down into it to keep herself from crying; for she would never again kiss those lips. She had wanted to, she had needed to…but he had turned her away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had wanted to save her. So he had freed her, only to bind her even tighter. This, he did not know…he could not know! For why did he bid her to flee? Why did his eyes betray the very words that were cried insolently from the curves of his mouth? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the carriage had arrived at the Girys’ flat, Christine had left the Vicomte in the doorway with an awkward and hurried embrace. She did not possess the strength or cognizance to carry on a conversation with him, much less utter anything that had to do with tonight’s horrendous event. The entirety of her body and soul was consumed with capturing; memorizing those last moments with Erik…the man who had sang her to sleep, every night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A man. He had only been a man. Not an angel, nor a demon…a man made of flesh and blood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A man who had bound her with one last kiss…a kiss that had signaled her freedom. So why did she wish to throw that freedom away? Why did she not wish to be free anymore…why was she yearning for moments that lived in the past…for moments when his voice had always been the friend, the gaurdian that guided her dreams every night? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now, he was gone. And she was utterly alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christine stood in the small spare bedroom of the Giry flat, left with the whirlwind of her thoughts. And there was no mercy to be found. As she paced about the tiny space wringing her hands, she caught her reflection in the full length mirror and paused. Her reflection stared back at her with wide ocean eyes, a pale and broken young woman with damp hair clinging to her cheeks. The gown fell in layers of exquisite moon colored fabric…perfect in every way, save for the blackened mud that fringed the bottom of the skirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She looked delicate, virginal, and glorious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But there was no glory. Not anymore. She had ruined it…she had destroyed everything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had betrayed her only friend; she had taken part in the plot against him. If only she could go back in time, if only she could turn back the clock and be in his embrace, once more upon the stage…where the crowd gaped as his fingers had raked up and down her arms…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christine shivered at the mere thought of it, startled by the joy the image provoked in her mind. It could have been an existence filled with </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> music, a lifetime listening to his illustrious voice singing to her…her angel, Erik’s voice deliciously entwined with her own. She could almost feel his long fingers tangling in her curls as he read to her the dark stories of the North. She remembered his hands caressing her, coaxing out feelings and sensations she’d never had the courage to claim.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tried to push the thoughts away, violently. It was a false dream of passion, a façade, a masquerade. There would be no future for them. Entertaining such impossibilities would only increase her suffering.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For she feared deep within her heart that she would never see this man, the man she now knew she had loved for so long…ever again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And her soul wept. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fabric of the wedding gown still clung to her shivering form in drenched, heavy folds. Christine’s hands shook as she attempted to undo the fastenings at the back of her neck, but her fingers felt thick and unsteady. Her hand merely touched the cool pearl buttons. Panic began to rise within her chest, and her throat felt tight and swollen. Would she be forever encased in this gown, in these memories that refused to die? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Forever his, yet never his…in this soiled satin and tattered lace? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christine exhaled deeply, dropping her hands to hang limply at her sides. She’d never thought that changing out of this dress might alter her grasp on reality; that it might make everything more real. So why did she want to stay in its stifling ties? Why did it burn everytime she touched a pale button or a piece of silk? Was it because his very hands had made what clung to her flesh…and if she were to take it off, he might dissapear from her memory altogether? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A wedding gown was a symbol of a union, though this union had never found its completion. Images of Erik bent over on the ground and shaking entered her mind; his pain so terribly evident and heartwrenching as he clutched her veil to his cheek…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears began to well up in her eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Would they have been able to start a life together, to move on from the lies and the deception…to utter the strength of their shared feelings? Would he have kept her after such a betrayal? Would he have freed her soul by entwining his heart with her own? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would never know, now. For he had stolen that choice from her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Erik must have thought it an act of mercy to let her go, to allow her to find happiness in a new life…a world that was absent of his presence.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A new life…wasn’t that what she had truly wanted? Her thoughts were scattered, and she found she lacked the ability to focus on a solid line of reasoning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who was she without his voice surrounding her, the voice that seemed to be made of night? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why did she have to keep reminding herself that he was simply a man, as prone to weakness and death as any other? Did it comfort her to think him immortal? To believe he was safe beyond the arms of the law and even the realm of mortality? For certainly, Erik would not have allowed himself to be found…would he? Was he rotting in a cell right now, maskless and afraid? The very image made her shudder and heave, tears now cascading; a river upon her glass-like cheeks. Christine fought the urge to vomit, though the image of her Maestro shackled and caged caused the bile to violently rise up in her throat. She kept her lips sealed tight, refusing to let her body believe in such images. She would not think of him being bound, being tortured…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She could not. For if she did, she feared she might die with him. For she loved him. And finally, she understood the meaning of love. She knew it was elusive and strange, yet powerful beyond measure. She could feel it humming, a beat that her ravaged soul sang out…yet there was no one through the wall or mirror to listen. He was gone. Christine heaved again, pressing a hand to her mouth as she felt her stomach churn. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would never see him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now that she knew this inconceivable truth, she felt the enormity of her love for him in every trembling breath, in every flutter of her eyelashes…in every pounding measure of her heart. Christine fiddled with the delicate white lace at the sleeve of the gown as reality struck mercilessly, over and over again. She could never claim him as her own. Erik was gone, with a  departure from her life as sudden as his arrival had been. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knew then that she must rid her body of the wedding gown. Christine was exhausted and her body ached; every joint feeling brittle and sore…and suddenly, she felt she could barely stand. She knew she needed to bathe and change, but questioned whether or not she had the strength to do what seemed like such a simple task. Her heart was overladen with grief, a nearly palpable weight leaning into her chest. It took every ounce of strength to continue to remain upright. With a forced swallow to rid her mouth of bile, she took a gulp of humid air…and called out to the girl, the woman in the other room who would understand. The ballerina that had been a sister to her…a girl that did not know of the pain that had ensued after the Opera had ended.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Meg!” Christine shrieked desperately, still fighting back the bile that continued to rise. “Meg, please come here…I…I need help! Please,” her voice broke as tears began to fall again, and Christine fell to her knees.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She decided immediately that once the dress was off, she would tuck it away somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch…Christine would hide her memories of him and horde them away in the sacred chamber of her heart…for perhaps he was gone, but she could still ruminate within the memories that she had…she could feel the stitches he had threaded ever so carefully…she could feel the parts of satin where his hands had touched, and perhaps pricked his finger on the tip of the sewing needle…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would keep his ardent love tucked away in her heart. And even if she was damned to live this life without him, she would keep every part of him within her spirit. She would memorize every pattern, every encounter, every breath and every sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Christine would never love again, this, she knew. Her heart spoke of a new song, one that cradled the sweetness of his touch, his voice, his eyes…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She would never belong to anyone else. For she had always, and would always, forever…be his.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We love reviews . . .</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This story is being co-authored by AlfadogThunder. For notes: This is an ALW and Kay-based piece. If you want to picture my Erik, think Ben Lewis and Ramin Karimloo. I love their elegance, commanding stage presence, and sensuality. I want to thank my beta and friend, LaurenAlfaDog, for all her edits, advice, sweet comments, and wonderful laughter, as she helps me put this piece together. I love making wonderful friends during these hard times. I apologize, in advance, for leaving y'all with a bit of a cliffie. I want you all to form your own conclusions of where this will go. Please read and review, and let me know your thoughts. -Jess</p></blockquote></div></div>
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